If These Walls Could Talk
by andromeda's song
Summary: If the walls within 221 B Baker Street could talk, what would they tell us? This is the story of the five times Sherlock's experiments got out of hand and the one time that John decided to take the initiative. (Established Johnlock, just some light fluff, nothing out of control)
1. One: Mr Henderson

One: Mr. Henderson

Molly Hooper ushered the grieving family into the lighted hallway just outside the morgue. There was never any good way to do this… no parent was prepared to see their child lying on a stainless steel slab in a morgue and no wife prepared to see her husband that way either. The fact that Daniel Henderson had been decapitated made this even harder. Molly had laid the poor man's head as close to the neck as she could without destroying any potential evidence. Sherlock had said he'd be in today to take a look at it, but she hadn't seen him yet. Strange…the man did fancy a good decapitation.

"What will happen to Daniel's body?" the mother asked, her voice choked with tears.

"Dan wanted to donate his body to science," the widow answered. "He always did say he'd be of no use to anyone…rotting in a coffin." She squeaked out the last part, but the mother gave a choked laugh.

"Dan never liked being idle," she mused.

Molly spoke up. "Because Mr. Henderson donated his body, the hospital will appropriate it. We can assure you that his donation is appreciated and that his body will be treated with respect."

The father, clearly shaken but silent, finally spoke. "Thank you," he whispered.

Molly nodded and opened the door of the autopsy, ushering in the family. _Here comes the hard part_, she thought. "Daniel was unfortunately a victim in a rash of murders that were…quite brutal in nature. I do have to warn you that his head and his feet have been removed." She paused while the widow hiccupped and the parents paled. "I've put him back together as much as I could so you could identify him. You don't have to look if you choose not to, but I need at least one of you to ID him."

The father stepped forward. "I will do it. Mary, Hannah, please look away. You don't need to see him like this." Neither woman argued, turning their backs and leaning into one another. The father swallowed hard and then lifted his eyes to Molly, giving her a nod of readiness.

Molly lifted the sheet. She heard the father's gasp an instant before her own voice made the same noise. She snapped the sheet back in place, walking quickly around the table to escort the family out. The father ran to the wastebasket in the corner and promptly threw up.

The man's head was missing.

When Molly came back to the morgue minutes later, she threw the sheet off, staring at the man's headless corpse. The head had been there when she went up to retrieve the family! She looked at the bottom of the corpse. His feet were gone too! She checked all of her freezers and little cabinets where the dead lay. There were no heads and no feet to be found. Who would make off with a man's head and…

Molly's eyes narrowed and she pulled out her mobile. _Sherlock bloody Holmes_!

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John Watson had finished with his last patient of the day. He washed his hands at the sink and tossed his head from side to side, cricking the bones in his neck. It had been a long and exhausting day. Apparently all the mothers in the neighborhood had decided to bring their children and their paranoia on the same day. The clinic had been a wash of tetchy toddlers and patronizing parents all afternoon. John loved children, but not today. Today he would have been satisfied to punt all of the smallish humans over the backyard fence.

His mobile started to chirp at him. He pulled it out of his pocket and glanced at the caller ID. Molly Hooper. _Huh_. He pressed a button and answered the call. "Hello, Molly."

He frowned as he heard the usually reticent woman erupt in a tirade of high-pitched yelling. After a full day of high-pitched noises coming from the wee ones, it was instantly maddening.

"Molly," he said in his Captain Watson voice, "please slow down and calm down at once." He heard her take a deep breath and steady herself. "Now, what seems to be the problem, Molly?"

He listened. And then he frowned. _Sherlock bloody Holmes_!

00000000000000000

Sherlock Holmes inserted the cotton swab into the mouth that was sitting in front of him. This head had been the perfect solution to the experiment he was currently attempting to perform. How lucky it had been that he had stumbled upon it in the morgue! Sherlock allowed a small, evil grin to encompass his face as he rubbed the swab on a slide. He filled a pipette with the proper solution and squeezed it gently onto the slide. Rubbing his hands in glee, he put the slide under the microscope and bent over to look.

He didn't hear John enter the flat, but he did hear the doctor march into the kitchen and come to stand right next to him. Sherlock pretended not to notice.

"Sherlock?" Ooh. That was not Dr. Watson's voice. That tone belonged to one Captain John H. Watson, formerly of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers. That tone did funny things to Sherlock's insides.

"Yes dear?" he drawled, intending to draw this out as long as he could.

"You stole a man's head. And his feet. As if that weren't bad enough, you stole his head right before his family came to identify him. His father looked at his decapitated corpse."

"I needed it for an experiment, John. I'm measuring…"

"I don't bloody care what you're measuring or calculating or anything, Sherlock. You stole Mr. Henderson! You have to go put him back, right now, and apologize to Molly and the family."

"But Johnnnn…" Sherlock whined.

"But John nothing. You will take this man's head and his feet and you will march right back to Bart's and give them back. Now." His tone brooked no arguments.

Sherlock scowled but stood and retrieved the carrier he'd used to fetch them. John was watching him, the soldier's glare still plastered on his face. Sherlock couldn't resist.

"Anything else I can do for you, sir?" Sherlock put a low emphasis on the word 'sir'.

Sure enough, the sentence had the desired results. John swallowed hard and his pupils dilated ever so slightly. He clasped his hands behind his back and stared down at Sherlock.

"Hurry back," he said. Sherlock grinned.


	2. Two: 350 Degrees

Two: 350 Degrees

John walked into the kitchen and filled the kettle with water. A strong cup of tea and some toast with jam was just what this doctor ordered. Sherlock had kept him up half the night with an impromptu violin concert that lasted 2 hours. He didn't know how anyone could keep their fingers cramped on those tiny little strings for 2 hours. John was enamored with Sherlock's musical talent and he knew the violin kept Sherlock from the brink of boredom, but 3:00 in the morning was just not…okay.

He filled his cup with boiling water and let the teabag percolate, taking the time to spread a dollop of raspberry jam on his toast. John heard Sherlock enter the living room and flop himself on the couch. He quickly made another cup of tea and carried all of the breakfast items into the living room.

"Here," John said, holding out the brace of tea mugs. "Take a cup."

Sherlock grunted his thanks and took a steaming mug. John tucked into his toast as he watched Sherlock take a few sips of the hot liquid. They sat in companionable silence, neither feeling the need to ruin the moment with words.

Sherlock abruptly stood up. He walked past John and into the kitchen, pecking the man on the head with his lips as he passed. John smiled into his tea. He never would have known Sherlock Holmes to be so… affectionate. John's smile morphed into an expression of confusion as he heard Sherlock open the door of the oven and then close it after a few seconds. Sherlock never baked anything…

John was prevented from thinking further along this line by the appearance of one Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade in the doorway.

"Knock knock," Lestrade said. John waved him in and Lestrade came in and took a seat across from John. At the sound of Lestrade's voice, Sherlock had wandered back into the living room and perched himself on the arm of John's chair. The pull of a potential new case was making him quiver with excitement.

"New case?" John asked.

"Obviously," Sherlock drawled. The comment earned him an elbow to his hipbone, which was the only part John could reach from the depths of his armchair.

"Alright, kids, play nice," Lestrade said. "We've got a murder. Body was found this morning in an alley. Female, late 20s…identified as Lara Ferguson. No obvious signs of a struggle, but there were these strange burn patterns on her hands." Lestrade handed over photos.

Sherlock took them and leaned over slightly so that John could look as well. John tilted his head to the right and then back to the left. Something about the burns looked oddly familiar. He glanced down at his toast and suddenly he knew why…

"It's obvious that these burns have been made with…"

Sherlock didn't get to finish that sentence because at that moment something in the kitchen exploded.

All three men hit the floor at the same time. Lestrade and John knocked their heads together as they dove off their chairs and Sherlock ended up sprawled out on top of both of them as he leapt from his higher perch. They lay there for a moment, listening to a slight hissing sound coming from the other room.

Sherlock was the first to spring up, dashing into the kitchen despite John's protests. Lestrade sat up and rubbed his head where it had collided with John's. "What the bloody hell was that?" the DI exclaimed. John clambered up and made his way cautiously into the kitchen, Lestrade trailing behind him.

The door of the oven had burst open and was hanging by its hinges. There were shards of broken glass lying here and there, but the main attraction was the spectacular orange goo that was oozing out of the open oven.

"Sherlock." John's voice was eerily calm and collected. "What. the. hell. was. that?" Each word was enunciated clearly and shortly.

Sherlock was standing on the other side of the oven, oblivious to the glass that was cutting into his bare feet. He was one hand placed over his mouth in thought and the other wrapped around his stomach.

"Hm," he grunted. "It would appear that I have made a miscalculation."

John stared and Lestrade gaped. "A miscalculation, Sherlock?" John asked. "Sherlock, YOU BLEW UP THE OVEN!"

"And what is that stuff anyway?" Lestrade asked. He was pointing a finger to the foamy orange goo that was still puffing out of the oven in little gasps.

Sherlock raised his chin. "It was experiment. I needed to heat the chemicals to 350 degrees and…"

"And you thought the oven in our kitchen was the best place to do that?! Dammit, Sherlock, you can't just use our kitchen to… mix your volatile chemicals! We eat here! People do visit us too, you know! The next time you could blow up the whole sodding flat!"

Lestrade couldn't help but chuckle at the absurdity of the situation. "When you're finished with your little domestic, come down to the Yard and we'll catch you up on the case." He excused himself from the flat and left the two men staring at each other. _The unstoppable force and the immovable object_, he thought. Sherlock Holmes had met his match.


	3. Three: Goldfish

Three: Goldfish

Martha Hudson thought the silence in 221 B was rather odd. She knew that John had gone to work today—he was due back any minute, actually—but she also knew that she'd heard Sherlock bumping around a bit all day. Now all was mysteriously silent and she'd not heard him go out the front door.

Of course, Mrs. Hudson knew that Sherlock could go for days without moving or speaking when he was in one of his darker moods. But she had distinctly heard him knocking about during the day so now the silence was a little suspicious.

She set the tea tray down on the coffee table. She'd made Sherlock's favorite treat and brought up some tea for them to share. Sherlock was nothing if not an exasperating tenant, but Mrs. Hudson had always favored him and John as her unofficial sons and loved to dote on them.

"Sherlock?" she queried, moving into the kitchen. The microscope and other miscellaneous scientific equipment were laid about the table, but there was no sign of the detective anywhere. Then she stopped as she heard a new sound: the pipes from the loo. Maybe he was just having a shower then?

Mrs. Hudson walked toward the hallway in order to get closer to the sound. She looked down the dark hall and thought she saw…

She flipped on a light switch and gasped. The hallway was beginning to flood with water that seemed to be trickling out of the loo. Mrs. Hudson kicked off her shoes and waded through the puddled water, throwing open the door to the loo. She didn't care one whit about the fact that she might find one Sherlock Holmes in a state of total undress. He might have hit his head or something!

What Mrs. Hudson saw when she threw open the door made her want to scream in frustration and laugh hysterically all in one go.

The tub was overflowing with water and the taps were still on, although the water was just a slow trickle now. Sherlock was standing in the middle of the room, water puddling around his ankles. His trouser legs were rolled up to his bony knees and he was shirtless, the yellow light playing on his pale skin. The great detective had a pair of swimming goggles pushed up into his damp curls and he held a plastic bag in one hand. The bag contained two goldfish.

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson said. "What on earth are you doing?!"

Sherlock spun to face his landlady, a faint blush appearing on his cheeks. "Mrs. Hudson!" he exclaimed. "How…nice to see you."

"Sherlock, what have you done?" Mrs. Hudson placed her hands on her hips and waded a little further into the small room.

"It was an experiment, Mrs. Hudson. You see, there was a case recently involving a bathtub drowning and four goldfish and I just wanted to see…."

"Sherlock!" Whoops. That was John's voice sounding in the hallway now. The doctor appeared, his trousers also rolled to his knees and a bewildered expression on his face. He took one look at the detective—shirtless, wearing swim goggles, and holding goldfish—and burst into a fit of riotous laughter. Seeing John crack up made Mrs. Hudson hide her mouth with her hands as she started to giggle as well.

Sherlock blushed even harder, setting the bag of fish in the sink and settled his hands on his hips, glaring at the floor. He reached over and shut off the taps and pulled up the plug from the drain as John and Mrs. Hudson's laughter begin to subside.

"Sherlock," John said, gasping for air. "I'm not sure I even want to know about this one." He wiped the tears from his eyes and gave one last chuckle.

Mrs. Hudson shook her head and said, "I'll go get some old towels from storage."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock called after her. Both he and John heard the faint "I'm not your housekeeper!" as the older woman went back downstairs. Sherlock looked sheepishly at John.

"Are you angry with me?" Sherlock asked. "It was just an experiment…dealing with the case we solved yesterday."

"I'm furious, Sherlock," John said, pulling his mouth into bemused smile. "You flooded our flat. What have we talked about concerning your experiments? You can't keep destroying the flat."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and threw up his hands. "I was just curious," he grumbled.

John smiled and waded further in to stand next to Sherlock. He threaded his arms around Sherlock's lean, bare waist and looked up into his grey-green eyes. John gave him a light squeeze.

"Although…I have to say this was a rather pleasant surprise to come home to." John ran his hands up Sherlock's bare back as he said this, delighting in the way Sherlock shivered.

Sherlock leaned down and pressed a deep kiss on to John's mouth. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against John's and they stood like this for a moment.

"John?" Sherlock asked.

"Hmm?"

"Can we keep the goldfish?"

As Mrs. Hudson made her way back the hall, she heard John's hearty laugh and Sherlock's deep chuckle and she smiled. These were her boys.


	4. Four: Again with the Sugar

Four: Again With the Sugar

It was a quiet afternoon at 221 B Baker Street. And when I say a quiet day on Baker Street, I really mean that John and Sherlock had decided to take out their frustrations over the eyes in the microwave via their hobbies instead of yelling. John was pecking at his laptop, updating the blog and Sherlock was composing new music on the violin.

After about 45 minutes of relative peace, Sherlock put the violin down and walked up behind John, who continued to type away. Sherlock leaned down and wrapped his arms around John's chest, nuzzling his face into the junction of his neck and shoulder. John stopped typing and Sherlock could practically hear him raising his eyebrow.

"I shouldn't have left the eyeballs in the microwave, John," Sherlock grumbled. He hated apologizing, especially when it was just an experiment. It's not like he'd blown anything up. But he had agreed to keep his experiments to himself and John had been quite upset to find the organs in the device.

John chuckled and turned his head so that his forehead was pressed against Sherlock's. Sherlock hummed in satisfaction.

"It's okay, Sherlock. I probably overreacted a bit. It's not like you blew anything up. But thank you for apologizing and do try to keep your experiments to yourself, hm?"

Sherlock hummed again and squeezed his arms a little tighter around John. John responded by kissing his forehead and then his nose.

"I hope I'm not…interrupting anything."

"Mycroft," Sherlock muttered, pulling back and glaring at his older brother, who was standing in the doorway leaning on his umbrella. "What do you want?"

Mycroft walked over and seated himself primly in Sherlock's armchair, resting the umbrella by his side and reaching into his jacket pocket. He removed a slim USB drive and held it in front of him. John stood up and went to the kitchen to make tea for the three of them. Sherlock slid down into John's vacated chair and reached over to take the drive from Mycroft.

"What's on it?" Sherlock asked.

"A little puzzle I thought you might enjoy," Mycroft responded, a slight smile toying with the edges of his mouth. "The Egyptian ambassador is in town this weekend and he had…a little trouble at his residence last night."

Sherlock inserted the drive into John's computer while John came in with three cups of tea. He handed one to Mycroft and set Sherlock's on the desk beside him. John seated himself on the arm of Sherlock's chair and looked down to read the files that were popping up on the computer.

"Burglary, then?" John asked, reading the fine print in front of him.

"Yes, John. But burglary is so ordinary, Mycroft. There must be something…different about this one then." Sherlock raised his eyebrow at the elder Holmes.

"The ambassador's room was under surveillance—apparently the man has been having trouble with assassins as of late. However, someone was able to slip into the man's room and steal his signet ring without ever having been caught by the cameras. What's more… they took it right off the man's finger as he slept. I'm told it's worth an exorbitant amount." Mycroft paused and took a sip of his tea, eyeing his younger brother and his partner.

"Curious…" Sherlock said, leaning closer to the screen. He began to read the reports with more zest, calling up the photos and videos from the scene as well.

"My word, Sherlock," Mycroft said. His voice sounded odd…thin and whispery. Both Sherlock and John looked up at the man. Mycroft's face was turning red. "What have you done with the sugar?" And with that, Mycroft Holmes began to gasp for air, sliding out of the chair and collapsing on the floor.

John leapt off the chair, his tea mug crashing to the floor, and ran to kneel next to the elder Holmes. The man's face was beginning to change color and when John looked, he could see that the man's tongue was beginning to swell and cut off his airways. Sherlock had appeared at his side, his eyes as wide as dinner plates and his mouth hanging open in shock.

"Sherlock," John commanded. "Go to my medical bag and get the Epi-pen. Go now!" John was vaguely aware of Sherlock dashing off to the bedroom, but John was focused on Mycroft. He leaned over and slipped off the man's tie and unbuttoned the first three buttons of his shirt.

"Stay with me, Mycroft," John ordered. "Sherlock will be back in a second with the pen, it's going to be fine."

The words were no sooner out of his mouth when Sherlock appeared, leaping over the furniture and slamming the device into John's outstretched hand. John ripped off the cap and rammed the pen into Mycroft's thigh. Mycroft gasped loudly and his breathing began to get steadier and deeper as the seconds ticked by. Sherlock was staring at his brother's face, one hand clutched anxiously at the man's ankle.

Mycroft's breathing slowed and became as close to normal as it could after an attack. He tried to sit up.

"Sherlock, help him sit up. I'll go fetch him a glass of water." John left for the kitchen and Sherlock took his place next to Mycroft, helping the man right himself so that his back was leaning against the chair. John came back with the water and Mycroft drank half of it before stopping.

"Thank you, John," he said, his voice hoarse. He coughed a few times before fixing his brother with a querulous gaze. Sherlock's cheeks reddened and he dropped his head.

"Sherlock, did you put something in the sugar?" John asked. He was furious with the man. This was the SECOND time he'd done things to the sugar…sugar that John had the potential to ingest and almost killed Mycroft! He almost missed the short nod that Sherlock gave. He was still gazing at the floor.

"Sherlock, for god's sake, why on earth…" John stopped his tirade when he felt Mycroft's hand on his arm. Mycroft nodded his head at Sherlock and then reached over to place his hand under Sherlock's chin. He raised the younger man's chin ever so slightly, and what John saw nearly broke his heart.

Sherlock Holmes was crying.

There were no loud gasps or wrenching sobs, but his face was very red and there were silent tears pouring out from both of his eyes. The corners of his mouth were trembling. John watched in near-fascination as Mycroft placed one gentle hand on Sherlock's cheek, wiping away the tears with his thumb. The gesture was so tender, John had a vision of a much younger pair of brothers… a young child with a scraped knee and a big brother tending to it and drying his tears. A boy with dark, curly hair and bright eyes following his elder brother everywhere he went. John's heart nearly crumbled with sentiment.

"I forgot," Sherlock whispered, his words cracking. He cleared his throat and tried again. "It was an experiment…I had quite forgotten about it. I swear I didn't know you were allergic. I swear it, Mycroft." Again, John heard a much younger Sherlock in those words.

Mycroft smiled gently. "What did you put in there?"

Sherlock rattled off a few non-lethal chemical compounds. Mycroft shook his head. "I did not know that I was allergic to any of those compounds either, Sherlock. I will get myself an allergen test."

Sherlock nodded and hiccupped, wiping his eyes with the sleeves of his dressing gown. He stole a glance at John, who was looking at him with an expression that was so tender and so forgiving that Sherlock felt the sentiment nearly melt his internal organs. He crawled over Mycroft's legs to settle into John's quiet embrace, becoming a child once more as he pressed his face into John's soft jumper and sighed. John glanced at Mycroft, who was looking at his brother with an expression that was absolutely unreadable.

Much later, John had pushed Sherlock into the shower, telling him that the hot water would make him feel better. Mycroft was sitting in the chair again, sipping a glass of water and nibbling on some biscuits that Mrs. Hudson had brought by. John sat in his chair and took a deep breath.

"Why that reaction, Mycroft?" John asked. "Sherlock has never had an emotional reaction like that before. Even when he came back after…after the fall… there was nothing that approached this magnitude."

Mycroft studied John for a moment before replying. "When we were children, Sherlock used to perform experiments around the house and the grounds, just like he does now. He also liked to pull pranks on the staff and I. Mummy was never very fond of his pranking, but even the Holmes children were bushy-tailed young ones at one point." Mycroft sipped at his water again, his mind trailing backwards in time.

"One time, I had a few acquaintances from school over for tea. We were working on a project together. Sherlock thought it would be very amusing to stuff the teapot full of shrimp. As it happens, I am quite allergic to shellfish and the shrimp-tea caused me to have a reaction very similar to the one I just had. Sherlock witnessed the whole event. He was only six at the time and I'm afraid it frightened him. He was so remorseful after that he actually avoided me for three weeks."

John stared at Mycroft. "Wow."

"Indeed," Mycroft murmured. "My brother and I may not get along very well on the surface, but he will always be that bright-eyed young boy with an inquisitive brain following me around."

"How sentimental, dear brother," Sherlock intoned from the hall entrance. His voice was sarcastic but he walked over to Mycroft's chair and placed a thin hand on his brother's shoulder. "And you will always be the cloying, maudlin git that I know you to be. What else is a brother suited for?" The brothers shared a small smile.

John was going to mark this day on the calendar.


	5. Five: Fingerpaint

Five: Fingerpaint

Mrs. Hudson gathered up the post and decided to deliver the letters that belonged to her tenants in 221 B. She knew they'd been running themselves ragged over the past few days. One of Sherlock's cases had gotten quite intricate and puzzling and that never boded well for their domestic life.

She sorted the post and laid her own letters on her table before gathering the boys' post and heading towards the stairs. Her hip twinged slightly and she rubbed it. It was almost time for an herbal soother, thank goodness.

When she arrived in 221 B, neither Sherlock nor John were to be found. She looked at the calendar that was hanging on the wall just inside the door. Oh. It would seem that John was working at the clinic today. But Sherlock was still not in the flat at all. Mrs. Hudson shrugged. He was probably out chasing criminals or following up on a lead. His work was very important to him.

Mrs. Hudson entered the living space proper, intending to leave the post on the mantle. But when she stepped fully into the space, she gasped out loud.

There was a white sheet spread out on the ground. There were red splashes of what appeared to be…blood. Martha Hudson swallowed thickly and tried not to panic. There were always strange goings-on in this flat…no need to be alarmed. She looked around and noticed that there were also red blotches on the floor and some on the walls as well, which made her vision cloud with terror.

Sherlock's absence nudged at her brain. Sherlock was missing and there was a blood-stained sheet in their living room and more blood splashed on the walls. Mrs. Hudson hurried back to the bedroom. There was another bloody sheet back there as well! Her heart sank like a stone. She checked the loo and the other bedroom, but there was no Sherlock to be found. She came back to the living room and picked up the landline.

She first dialed Sherlock's mobile number, but she only got his voicemail. She tried it again, but that's when she heard the faint buzzing coming from the desk drawer. She opened it and found Sherlock's mobile nestled in the detritus. Her heart began to pound harder.

She dialed John.

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John had abandoned the slow moving cab and was now running towards his flat. He had received Mrs. Hudson's panicked phone call and had run out immediately, leaving Sarah with a three word explanation of where he was going. He knew that Sherlock was still finishing this case, but it had proven to be a lot more difficult and a lot more dangerous than they had anticipated.

John hadn't even wanted to go to the surgery today, preferring to stay by Sherlock's side during a case. But Sherlock had assured him that he had planned on staying in the flat today to run experiments with his lab equipment until John got home. He too didn't like to be on a case without John by his side. With Sherlock's assurance that he would just be doing "desk work", as it were, John had picked up a shift at the surgery.

But now… oh now John was regretting that decision. He envisioned multiple scenarios, all involving Sherlock being beaten and bloodied and then kidnapped from his flat. As he ran into 221 and up the stairs to their flat, John found himself bargaining with deities he didn't even believe in. He hadn't done that since Sherlock had… "died" almost five years ago.

He burst into the flat to find Mrs. Hudson nervously pacing. His eyes quickly took in the bloody sheet on the ground, the smears of blood on the floor, and the red splotches on the walls. There was a handprint there that looked exactly the size of Sherlock's. John felt his heart sink to his feet.

John put his arms around Mrs. Hudson as she began to hiccup nervously and tears started to shine in her eyes. "Don't worry, Mrs. Hudson. I'm going to call DI Lestrade and we'll get this all sorted out." Mrs. Hudson laid her head against John's chest and she could tell by his racing heart that he was just as nervous.

When all hell breaks loose in England, put the kettle on. And that's just what Martha Hudson did as John picked up the phone to call the detective inspector.

At that moment, footsteps sounded in the stairwell and both John and Mrs. Hudson froze.

"John? What are you doing home so early?" Sherlock Holmes took off his coat and scarf and hung them both on the stand in the corner. He eyed John from across the room, noting how John's mouth was hanging open in an odd mixture of relief and confusion. Mrs. Hudson appeared around the corner with tears in her eyes.

"Sherlock!" the older woman cried as she walked up to him and snugged her shorter arms around the tall man's torso. Sherlock grunted with surprise and patted her back soothingly, shooting up an eyebrow in John's direction. His attention, however, was drawn back to Martha Hudson as she smacked his cheek. It wasn't hard by Sherlock's standard, but it was hard enough for him to start and stare down at the older woman.

"Just what do you think you were doing, young man, scaring the daylights out of us?"

Sherlock was utterly perplexed at the question. What had he done to… Oh. The sight of the blotchy sheet on the floor across the way caught his attention and he remembered the experiment he had been doing. They must have thought…

"Mrs. Hudson, John, I assure you I am fine. It was an experiment."

John let out a huge sigh and rubbed his temples with his fingers. Mrs. Hudson put her hands on her hips. Sherlock threw up his hands and launched into an explanation.

"I needed to see the different effects of different kinds of blood on varying surfaces. I suspect that in our latest case, the blood that was spread on the walls did not all belong to our victim, which would suggest that he may still be alive. Since the one sample we took was human, I can only conclude that they mixed animal blood with human blood and hoped that no one would check." He pointed at the sheet. "I've mixed chicken blood with human blood and wanted to see the effects on the surfaces. Any differentiation in color, texture, smell…it could be useful."

"Fantastic." The word slipped out of John's mouth before he could stop it. It really was a fantastic deduction, even if his flat was covered in chicken blood. Sherlock gave him a small smile and a blush rose to his cheeks the way it did when John praised his work.

"Useful indeed," Mrs. Hudson said. "But I thought you'd been hurt, Sherlock. There was just blood everywhere and you were gone! And you left your mobile here!"

Sherlock had the grace to blush again. "I'm sorry I worried you, Mrs. Hudson. I just had to run to the lab for a moment to get a few things." He removed swabs and a bottle of solvent from his coat pockets as evidence.

Mrs. Hudson reached up and tapped his nose with her forefinger. "Next time, leave a note or something before you go out and leave the flat all bloody like this." She scoffed lightly and moved to go downstairs. "I'll bring you boys some tea up, but I'm not cleaning that blood up. I'm…"

"Not your housekeeper," all three of them intoned. Mrs. Hudson smiled as she went downstairs.

Sherlock glanced guiltily at John, who had sidled up closer to Sherlock's side. John looked back at him with a small smirk of indifference on his face.

"I can't compete with Mrs. Hudson," he said. "So I'm just going to smile and remind you of the agreement we had about your experiments…again."

Sherlock sniffed in embarrassment. "Sorry, John. I'd say it won't happen again but…" He trailed off, shrugging his shoulder.

John smiled and wrapped an arm around his waist. "You can take the mad scientist out of the lab, but you can't take the lab out of the mad scientist." John frowned slightly as he processed what he said. "That sounded better in my head."

Sherlock chuckled and gave his army doctor a strong hug, which the doctor returned.


	6. Six: Retaliation

Six: Retaliation

"Really, Lestrade, when are you going to hire people with IQs higher than their shoe sizes?"

Greg Lestrade rubbed his temples briefly before staring wearily up at the three people that were currently crowded into his office. Sherlock was leaning against the wall on his left, his arms crossed haughtily and a cold sneer on his face. Sally Donovan was standing in the middle of the room with her fists clenched at her side. It looked like she was trying to melt Sherlock's face with her mind the way she was staring at him. David Anderson was standing behind her and to her left. He had his arms crossed too but he was looking at Lestrade with a grim smirk.

"You may be smart, freak, but not smarter than all of us put together," Donovan said, gesturing to all three policemen in the room.

"Please, I have a skull at home that's smarter than everyone in this office," Sherlock replied.

"Watch it, Holmes," Lestrade warned, giving the young man an eyebrow. Sherlock made a face but kept quiet.

Donovan faced Lestrade. "Sir, you can't honestly tell me that you believe what the freak…"

"That'll be enough of that too, Sergeant Donovan," Lestrade interrupted coolly. Sherlock lowered his head minutely and Donovan stared, but then shook her head and picked back up.

"You can't honestly believe what _he_ is saying. It's just too outlandish, even for him!"

"When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth," Sherlock recited, eyeing Donovan.

"But there's no way this could have happened," Anderson interjected. "You're suggesting that a man in central London was ripped apart by a…by a…" Anderson stuttered, unable to voice the conclusion that Sherlock had drawn.

"By an alligator, yes, Anderson. Do keep up," Sherlock finished for him.

"Sherlock," Lestrade said. "Even you have to admit that this is insane. I mean, what would an alligator be doing in the middle of London?"

"No idea," Sherlock replied. "But I suggest you take the time to look into the exotic pet market. In the meantime, I also suggest that you hire compatriots who can tell the difference between a reptile's bite and a knife wound." And with that, Sherlock swept out of the office, his long coat flapping behind him. He took care to throw an extra sneer at Anderson on his way out.

Lestrade sighed again. This was so not his division.

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Sherlock pounded up the stairs to 221 B, eager to get home and away from the trained baboons at Scotland Yard. Sherlock had a healthy respect for the detective inspector, but Donovan and Anderson and most of the other idiots that worked there absolutely infuriated him. Sherlock thought that he would just take his frustrations out with a violin workout…maybe a Paganini caprice today. That would have to do until John got home from…

Sherlock had opened the door of his flat to find John Watson swinging from the end of a hangman's noose that had been fixed to a ring in the ceiling.

Sherlock lost the ability to reason as he watched his partner twirling slowly at the end of the rope. There was a chair lying off to the side where he had kicked it out.

Sherlock's brain shorted out and he slumped to his knees, his eyes agog and his mouth hanging open in pure shock. "John," he wheezed, the tears springing to his eyes and rolling down his cheeks. "John, no… no, John, please…"

"Well aren't you going to help me down?"

Sherlock froze as he heard John's voice. Was it possible that he had gone insane in the past 14.8 seconds? His mind was still reeling when John's body swung around and faced him. John was looking down at him, one eyebrow raised and his hand now on his hips. He spoke again and his voice was thick and growly.

"Really, this is getting a bit uncomfortable. I'd appreciate it if you could help me. Grab that chair will you?"

Sherlock stared at his partner for another 3.5 seconds before he scrambled to his feet and dragged the chair over so that John could rest his feet on it.

"Ah," he breathed. "That's much better, thank you." Sherlock watched in fascination as John pulled the noose off and stepped down off the chair. He walked to the loo and came back with a wet flannel, wiping his face and neck down. Sherlock was still staring.

"John…" he finally managed. "What…what were you doing?"

"An experiment, Sherlock." John tilted his head to the right as he said this, as if the answer was obvious.

"An experiment…" Sherlock whispered.

"Precisely. I wanted to see how...ooof!" John's words were cut off as the lanky frame of Sherlock Holmes crossed the space between them and wrapped John in a tight embrace. He pulled back and kissed John within an inch of his life. John felt all traces of his need for revenge slip away. Sherlock pulled away and stared down at John with traces of the anguish still lining his face.

"Don't ever do that to me again," Sherlock whispered fiercely.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," John said with all the honesty that he possessed. "That was a really dramatic retaliation. I'm sorry it worried you so much. Honestly I thought you'd see right through it from the start."

Sherlock chuckled darkly and pressed another kiss to John's lips. "I tend to lose my reasoning faculties when you are involved, John Watson. You had me fooled."

It was John's turn to chuckle and he did so as he stepped back into Sherlock's embrace and laid his head on the taller man's chest. "Can we agree on less ridiculous experiments happening in our flat? I don't mind the little ones. Hell I can even learn to live with toes in my cupboards. But can we save the explosions and the chemical spills and the painting-the-walls-with-blood for another place?"

Sherlock nodded. "I'll try, John."

"Thank you," John replied. "But I swear on everything I own that if you try to drug the sugar again, I will end you."

"It wasn't in the sugar, John!" Sherlock exclaimed, referencing their Baskerville case. "Are you ever going to let that go?"

John smiled and pushed Sherlock down on the couch, sitting beside him and curling under his arm and into the space that he fit so perfectly. "Probably not."

Sherlock sighed exasperatedly. John laughed. They sat in companionable silence for a while, Sherlock's fingers tracing patterns on John's arm.

"John?" he asked finally.

"Mmm?"

"How did you manage to hang yourself?"

John grinned. "It's quite elementary, Sherlock…"


End file.
